


Going Too Far

by ungracefulPotato



Category: British Comedy RPF, Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Confessions, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Talk, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, inspired by Greg and Clive's snarky banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7169411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ungracefulPotato/pseuds/ungracefulPotato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clive won't admit to himself he's head-over-heels for Greg until Greg (in a characteristically forward way)...erm...forces the issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Too Far

Clive watched Greg from behind his desk. Greg’s hair was almost vertical (as per usual), and he’d hiked a pair of voluminous black trousers up to his ribs. They draped seductively across his narrow hips, made his legs look like they went for miles, and outlined a definite bulge between said legs. Clive ought to keep his mind on the show, on finding the perfect moment to buzz, but Greg’s loud shirt drew his eye and Greg’s nasal drawl had him hanging on every word.

 

He was so unapologetically, infuriatingly American, so flamboyant and pulled it off so well, better than Clive ever could himself—mustn’t think about Greg pulling him off, hand tight and slick, steady upward gaze of wide eyes and parted, coral lips—no! The game at hand. He just caught the end of Ryan laying down a pithy one-liner, so he hastily hit the buzzer and moved on to announce the next game, Sit-Stand-Lie.

 

As he watched Greg jump up energetically and throw himself down onto the cot, he felt his groin start to heat, and shifted around in his chair trying to quell his growing arousal. He tried to put his mind back on the game, but tuned in just in time to hear Greg smokily utter an innuendo, his dark eyes flicking momentarily to Clive’s then down his body, catching on lips for a split second. Clive’s reaction was immediate and powerful. His cock jumped and surged up, starting to throb; his heart stopped before resuming double time; his brain froze with paranoia that Greg, everyone, could see his jutting erection, before he remembered the merciful desk. As he looked on, Greg looked back at him again and his tongue—wet, pink, and pointed—just poked out the corner of his mouth before Greg half-lidded his eyes and opened his mouth slowly (his back arched, head tipped back as he leant back on his hands resting on the cot behind him) and dragged his tongue over his upper lip. Then he opened his eyes again to pierce Clive, whose mouth was hanging open, cheeks flushed and chest rising and falling as he fought for air. He could feel his stiffy twitching all over uncontrollably, blurts of precum sliding down his length.

 

He hadn’t been home in a week, hadn’t even touched his wife in even longer (it’d been ages since he’d screwed—made love to her, he corrected himself). He hadn’t even had time to toss himself off in his hotel room, too busy with tapings to do anything but fall into bed and climb out of it, erection you could balance a biscuit on or no. That wasn’t counting the two mornings he had woken up with Greg’s lean, naked body and smoothly nasal voice seared into his mind. The first time he had woken up hard and rutting his hips up against the duvet and had to force himself to stop. Greg was his coworker, Greg was a man! But his dick didn’t seem to care about any of that, immediately stirring then rubbing and pushing insistently at the front of his trousers whenever he saw or even thought about Greg. He had spent longer with his hands in his pockets trying to press down his erection than he ever had before. The second time he had woken up on the cusp of orgasm with the memory of Greg writhing under him, legs tight around his waist moaning in his ear reverberating through him. This time he let out a sigh that morphed into a whimper as he finally closed his hand around his prick and two jerks later came so intensely he shot most of his spunk onto his chin.

 

So here he was three long, untouched days later, prick painfully hard and dangerously close to coming off, right there in his suit trousers, in the studio, on _camera_. He ended the game, but just when he thought he was finally safe, Greg passed behind Clive’s desk on his way to his seat and pressed his rock hard dick against Clive’s back (making Clive’s own dick pulse and squirt more precum) before dropping his head to bring his lips right next to Clive’s ear and murmuring “I want to suck you so bad” and dropping his hand to stroke Clive through his trousers. Clive bit his lip to stifle a moan as he thrust helplessly into Greg’s hand, felt his balls clench up and himself start to come. He had to thrust up again like his life depended on it as his cock pulsed and he ejaculated, his semen spurting out so forcefully it jetted up through the fabric of his trousers to lay over Greg’s hand like a pearly rope. (Or a pearly gate, thought Clive deliriously.)

 

But Greg left, semen and all, and the camera was back on him. He fought down his ecstatic grin and parroted “That deserved at least 42 points, so I’ll give it…32”. He glanced at Greg, who looked gutted and a little shocked (even at this moment Clive couldn’t help but be endeared by his expressiveness) and in the wake of the explosive pleasure of the moment before, the sudden, cold fears slid down Clive’s spine like fat raindrops that Greg was disgusted, that he would report Clive for harassment, and worst of all, that Greg might never come back to the show. He was surprised at himself, that he cared so much. He struck the thoughts down and continued the show.

\---

Afterwards, walking to the tube station in the dark (and the cold since he had his suit jacket folded over one arm to cover any stains—not that he expected anyone’d be looking, but best be cautious in these matters), he mulls over the show. Well, he mulls over Greg, if he’s honest. Then who should noisily pant his way to trot beside Clive’s elbow but Greg himself! (Think, and he shall appear. My devil indeed—tempting me to public indecency, no less, Clive muses in the split second he takes to compose his features into benevolent surprise—he must keep this turmoil in check). His surprise increases when he sees tear tracks on Greg’s smooth face. He wants to hold Greg’s face in his hands. The thought comes unbidden.

 

Greg’s voice is low, hesitant when he speaks. “Clive? I just wanted to apologize. I-I didn’t realize the effect I was having on you—“

 

“And I suppose you also didn’t realize you were pressing your, erection up against me?” Clive says sharply. He is startled to find he is angry.

 

Greg’s eyes widen. He looks downcast. He continues, even more quietly. “All I want to say is that I’m sorry and I wish I’d told you earlier—I’m in love with you, Clive.”

 

Clive’s brain short circuits. He has to make himself inhale. His voice blurts “you’ve got a funny way of showing it” before he can stop himself. He can see Greg’s face fall and start to darken in anger and he knows he’s been too flippant, gone too far, but not far enough, has never gone far enough into his own mind to realize that he loves this man—that this brilliant, funny, madly handsome American has stolen his heart. He puts up his hand. “Greg, I have a lot to apologize for. I’ll start by saying I’m ashamed of that last comment. It was a reflex, and horribly rude, and it wasn’t even very funny.”

 

“That’s the part you care about most, isn’t it?” Greg says, sadly, fondly.

 

“But see, you _are_ funny, perhaps that explains why I”—Clive clears his throat—“why I love you” he gets out, a little hoarsely. And Clive takes Greg’s hands in his own and kisses him shyly. The end.


End file.
